Some people eat food so sensually, so passionately, that you yourself start to salivate, to desire to eat as they. This is not Dan.
Dan eats lecherously but without real feeling or pleasure. He stuffs his face, talking and mawing in ceaseless smacks, never pausing for a sip or even a break in the torrent of flavors muddying together on his palate. As a matter of course, Dan always orders the most expensive entrees on the menu but will plow through them as if rushing to belch. I sometimes do think he only tastes his meals in these gassy after thoughts.
Dan is not merely democratic in his tastes, he is positively post-structuralist — he appreciates no difference between an amuse bouche and fried finger food, a tough tenderloin and a feathery filet of tilapia. I correct myself — he does have some preferences, several quite obstinate ones in fact, but these verge on the perverse. He likes his calamari rubbery, his wine cloyingly sweet, his meat gray on the outside and dry and coarse on the inside. He insists on swirling pasta around his fork and then using it as a paddle to sling heapfuls into his mouth.
Dan is a douche bag of gourmet.